The rush, the push and fuss
Brindabellas ancient and old
Long stories they tell and have told
Crush, crush the leaves of late summer fuss
Dry mould, blue fairy Wren, oh gush!
Comfort speaks of me and my red cloak
Under those hills she sometimes yerns
When she’s angry, they burn
I can find her then, just like the Wren.
Will she be ready to join me? Travelling this mortal place?
Not till the oceans boil, and the dark wolf throws his muzzle and gapes
It’s taken all I’ve lost and all I’ve earned to find peace in those words
In the meantime, perhaps I will spend some time
As a blue fairy wren
